Comprendez vous?
by Tendo Rei
Summary: It seems like you kiss a lot of frogs just to get to…a bigger frog
1. Comprendez vous?

**Comprendez-vous?**

_Disclaimer: Batman is not mah properteh, so don't sue me hmah._

* * *

"…Surprise!" 

She let out a scream. The man in the emerald green suit and a matching bowler leapt out from behind an office building, hands extended in the cliché "joke" pose. Her hands clasped over her heart, but then immediately began fumbling for her mace. He clicked his tongue and held up a small red canister. She looked at him in disbelief, then at the can, then back at him again.

"How did you-"

"Never mind _that_, Karen! It's _riddle_ time!"

Her hands formed the defensive claw she had learned from her class at the Y. "How do you know my name?"

"I found you on Facebook! Now, what has four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three at night?"

Her head was still spinning. "Wha…?"

"And if you don't answer, I'm going to _eviscerate_ you!" He did a mad little dance on the sidewalk. Karen watched him blankly.

"Umm, three…three what?"

"_Legs_ Karen! Give up?"

She stared at him. "Uh…yeah, sure."

"It's _man_!" He threw his arms up. She still stared at him. "What?"

"That's it? That's the answer? It's _man_?"

"Well…yes."

"That's friggin' _stupid_."

A chill wind blew between them.

"That's one of the oldest riddles in the world! The sphinx posed it to Oedipus when he approached-"

"Well, it's _stupid_. How the hell was I supposed to know that? '_It's_ _man_'. You just used it to make yourself sound smart."

The Riddler wilted a little inside. This day was not going as he'd hoped.

"Come on, if you had taken history in school-"

"That's beside the point!…Hey, I bet you wouldn't even have gotten it if you didn't already know the answer!"

His shoulders hunched defensively. "I would've known." His voice came out as a whine.

"Yeah, and if I believed _that_, then we'd both be rubes." She paused. "Why are you doing this?"

His answer came as a mumble.

"I'm sorry?"

"BecauseIwantedtoaskyouout!" He said in an embarrassed rush. She blinked a few times.

"Oh." She said at length. "That's different then."

He looked at her in awe. "You'd…you'd still go out with me?"

She looked him up and down. "I guess…okay. I mean, as a villain, you're kind of a joke, but it'd impress the hell out of my friends."

He stood up straight, glaring. "Hey, I'm not as lame as…as…"

She gazed at him skeptically. "As who?"

"As…Killer Croc!"

She made a _pfft_ noise. "_Please_. At least **he** has super-strength."

"But he's covered in abrasive scales! And he's rock stupid! _And_ he lives in a sewer!"

"Hey, that's his lair. Anyway, I don't see anybody scrambling to call _you_ when there's one of those group-alliance things that always end with Catwoman betraying everybody."

"I do okay." He muttered sulkily. She sighed and shook her head.

"Listen, this is all time I could be spending getting ready. If you're really serious about this, then I need to go back to my apartment and change, maybe a quick shower. You?"

He jumped. "Well, I suppose I could…change…"

She gave a short laugh. "You better. You're not exactly dressed to impress, are you?"

"Hey now, this is my seventh-best suit, I wear this for bank robberies and goon's funerals!"

"You go to their funerals?"

"Yes, actually. It occupies a lot of time, but I think it lends a personal touch."

She smiled and shook her head. "Well, get on your…your third-best suit, or something a little more…"

"Debonair?"

"_Subtle_. And we'll have a date tonight."

He smiled. _That hadn't been so hard_. "Where do you want to go?"

"Uh-uh, I have to get home. We'll have plenty of time to pick something when we're cruising around in the…Riddle-mobile?"

"Um…in the shop."

"How did you get _here_ then?"

"Walked."

She sighed. The cons of dating a minor supervillain were beginning to outweigh the pros.

"Okay, rent a car-"

"-I can steal one-"

"-_steal­_ a car, and meet me back here in about two hours. Bring your wallet, no purple ascots or anything like that, comprendez-vous?"

"Got it."

They stood there for a minute.

"…Aren't you going to zip off or something like that?"

"Actually, it's about twenty minutes to my lair and also…this is a pretty rough neighborhood."

She sighed again. Great, a gentleman. "You want to walk me home?"

"If it's not too…forward of me."

She smiled in spite of herself and proffered her elbow. "It's not."

They walked off, arm in arm, awkward but dealing with it.

"So, you seemed to have this dating thing down to a science."

"Well, I'm kind of an expert."

"Oh?"

"We're running a pool on it in my office."

"_Oh._"

"Diane is ahead of me, but she only has one of the Penguin's henchman… and she isn't enjoying herself, trust me. A henchman? The guy's all hands."

"Ah. So this will put you in the running?"

"I hope. I mean, at least it'll put me ahead of Susan, who claims to be dating Bat-mite, though we all can't be sure whether she's kidding or not."

"It seems like you kiss a lot of frogs just to get to…a bigger frog."

"_Tell_ me about it. And all the cool ones are either taken or insane. Or _both_. I mean, look at the Joker!"

"I have. I can't imagine them…urgh!" He shook his head to drive away the ghastly images of those two bumping uglies.

"By the way, do you know if the Scarecrow's free? I'm not asking for me…well, I am a _little_ I guess, but Tina in accounting wants to know."

"Who, Jonathan? He's…not your type." He thought of the last time he'd seen the other villain. "Actually, I don't think _you're_ his type, if you get my drift."

Realization dawned on her face. "Ahhh, so he's…a _third_ problem."

The Riddler felt a small surge of triumph.

"Not that you'd like him anyway, he's mind-numbingly boring, and an absolutely wearisome person to have a conversation with. Why, I remember once back in June…"

The pair ambled on to her apartment, the lights of Gotham winking at them as they went on their merry way. Ah, harmony.

* * *

_Author's note: Another late-night wonder, this one finished at about three. I've never done a really light-hearted Batman story before, and I really liked how this one turned out. I like this as a one-shot, but I might turn it into chapters later…hmm. Be seeing you._


	2. Chapter 2

The iceberg lounge, the only place in the city he could think of that wouldn't require them to RSVP at this hour, was half-empty when they arrived. Karen looked moderately stunning in a blue dress and filmy wrap, which she proudly and repeatedly proclaimed to be an Hermé's bought at a vastly reduced price.

"I found it at that place on Fifth and J street, it was buried under like a million jogging suits." She bragged as the maître d' slid out her chair. He nodded and tried to look fascinated, inwardly wondering why on earth she would think he cared. He was in a forest green pinstripe, bowler discreetly tucked under one arm. He still carried his question mark cane, because a man had to have _some_thing.

After they were seated and the smiling maître d' was tipped to go away they sat silently together, tea lights throwing flickering shadows on their faces. He drummed his fingers on the table. She gazed off at an imaginary point on the horizon. Bread was brought to the table and buttered.

Finally the Riddler decided a conversation wasn't the worst thing that could happen.

"So, is it, ahem, _exciting_, your work?"

She gave him an empty stare and he immediately decided if it wasn't the worst thing, conversation was still pretty awful.

"Well, it's no picnic but I get along all right. In fact, last Tuesday we implemented a new payroll measure and everyone was forced to switch over to direct deposit, and that meant a few people up in sales got audited because…"

As astoundingly uninteresting and tiresome as the following anecdote was, he couldn't help following along in the tale of minimum wage and office intrigue with enthusiasm, even asking a question every once in a while. It helped that his last actual conversation had been with the Mad Hatter, Killer Croc, and Rhino.

It had lasted three hours and consisted of the same three sentences over and over again.

But the _way_ Karen told the story, lending a bit of character to each name, illustrating with her pretty little fingers was just fascinating. He had spent far too much time around people who made bank robbery and arson sound as tedious as going on a shopping trip for linoleum. Just the fact that she never once used the words "kill the Bat" made him fall a little more in love with her.

"…And so now she's going on vacation while Terry takes her spot, and that's why I'm working in the corner office now." She paused and looked at him. "Have I talked too much?"

"No," He told her sincerely. "No, it's… nice. You talk about normal life, not…not crime and death and horrific psychological problems."

"Oh," She flushed charmingly, "but I bet you have a _much_ more exciting life…even though you're not the Killer Croc."

He smiled wryly. "No, that may not be, but I do have a quite exciting life. Trust me, I've had so much _excitement_ I just might explode from joy all over this restaurant."

"That's not funny."

"Good. My life is not funny. Being me is not funny or fun or any other of those cute little adjectives adorable people use to describe themselves. You have an office pool on who's going to snag a villain, we have a pool on who's going to die next. I've got money riding on the Killer Moth."

"That's dumb!"

"No, it's a pretty fair bet. The man smokes like a chimney and eats three fried eggs every morning."

"No I mean…you have all these things that _happen_. In my office there's absolutely zero privacy and half the office is in the other half's business all the time! It's like living in a gopher burrow! But you, you…" She struggled to find the words. He found them instead.

"I live on the edge, the kind of life you wish you'd chosen, isn't that it?" She was silent. "Yes, you, much like your office coworkers, have chosen security over adventure, and regret every minute of it. So you cope with it by focusing on the insignificant and flirting moderately with danger. Diane's dating a henchman? That's as far as any of them will get. If one of them actually made the effort, actually went out and _got_ a villain, they'd be ostracized. Normal people don't want interesting lives, they want to live free of the obligation to _do_ anything but still have a taste of the abnormal. To inwardly conform yet masquerade as different. It's exactly like high school!" His fist thumped on the table.

He hadn't known until he'd stopped that he'd been shouting, and now all around them heads turned. Karen was a statue, lips set into a straight line. He sat down, flicking open the menu and pretending to study it.

"Well," he choked out, "what looks good to you?"

Silence from the other end of the table.

"I think the duck a l'orange looks divine, or maybe the steak tartar–"

"You're right."

He stopped, and swallowed. Hope sprang anew in his breast.

"I'm what?" He peeked over the menu.

"You're right." She regarded him coolly over her water glass. She sipped and set it down, no lipstick marked the rim. That impressed him, in some strange way.

"It's exactly how my high school was. I moved to the city to try and get away from that kind of mentality, but I guess it's universal. People cope with life in the big scary city by compartmentalizing their lives and selective vision. If you can't see it, it can't hurt you, see?"

He lowered the menu all the way. She was looking at him, really looking, and her hand on the table was trembling. It was enchanting.

"I got double eight hundreds on my SAT's," He blinked, and realized he was talking. "I was reading at a college level by the time I was ten, by the time I was twelve I could solve complex logic problems without any paper. I was picked on, ridiculed, and beaten at every opportunity. I was considerably more intelligent than anyone else and I was so unhappy that I felt like killing myself. There were days where I would have given anything, _everything_ to be one of the blissfully ignorant."

"And nothing's changed?"

"No." There was a lump in his throat. "Nothing ever has."

Conversation died a horrible death, and silence came to nest in its bones. The maître d' came over for another tip to go away, and they were given pointed looks because they'd had yet to order.

Finally, he slid out of his funk long enough to snag a passing waiter and order Cajun chicken for himself, and crab bisque for the lady. It wasn't their waiter but he'd pass the message along.

Karen fidgeted, mouth half-forming words but never making a sound, shredding her generic dinner roll into the butter.

"I guess I can relate…a little, I mean." She said finally. He gave her a listless look, already counting this date stillborn.

"I was a little above average, but I hid it because I was so afraid of becoming unpopular. I acted dumb, did a damn fine job of it too. I used to get really scared that the face I put on for other people was the real Karen and I only dreamed that I was anything more. I was so desperate after school ended not to end up married by eighteen, or worse. So I took the first opportunity I could to get away, and I came to the big city to do exactly what I'd been doing all along. I had a chance to start over and I squandered it. Royally."

He stared at his cane.

"C'mon. laugh." He let out a strangled croak. "Laugh. It's funny. Not a 'ha-ha' kind of funny, but funny in the way Jonathan Swift is funny. 'A Modest Proposal' funny. Cosmic irony funny."

"Ha-ha." He intoned. She smiled slightly and he melted inside.

* * *

_Author's note: hello childrens, how goes it? I've been in sort of a writerly funk lately, so I took a lot of time off to relax and refresh. I decided to continue this story because I think it's cute, and because it's pretty different than anything else I've written. There will be future chapters, I've already got the next done, so look for it!_


	3. Chapter 3

A figure in black and white waddled up to their table, not their food arriving but the owner himself.

"I had to see it to believe it." Oswald Cobblepot grumbled. "_You_ have the nerve to come in here, bills unpaid, demand yet again of my hospitality after the last time–"

"I'll _pay_ you, you pudgy little antichrist!" The Riddler said a little louder than he meant to. "I'll square up my tab, wash dishes if I have to, but could I expect the courtesy of not having my dinner interrupted by a bill collection when my companion and I haven't' even received our food?!"

The Penguin squared up against him, looking somewhat bizarre because of their height difference.

"_What_ companion may I ask?" The Riddler pointed stonily across the table to Karen, who was looking rather shell-shocked considering. The proprietor immediately calmed down and switched on the old Cobblepot charm. He ordered their food brought, a light claret besides, and the fiddler was called away from a miserable group of businessmen to serenade the couple.

His dinner date was enchanted. The Riddler rolled his eyes.

After making a petit bow of apology, Oswald put a fatherly arm around his shoulders (forcing him to stoop slightly), and ushered him to a quiet corner to have a quiet word.

"My, Edward." He murmured gently, mopping his brow. "A hostage, _here_? I just finished replacing the carpet in the foyer after the last time–"

"She's not my hostage." He answered wearily.

"Rising villainess?"

"No."

"Extortion target?"

"No."

"Cousin, paid escort, mind control victim?"

"No, no, and _eeeeugh_. She's my _date_ Oswald, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't further drive home my status as a third rate villain…if that's even possible."

"Of course, of course." He screwed a monocle into his eye. "Really, _you_, a _girl_…

"It's not _that_ amazing." He snapped, stomping back to the table before he could see the Penguin's smug look of interest. Karen sat back, hands folded elegantly in her lap. The bisque steamed, the Cajun chicken looked crisp.

"Looks good." He said, and she smiled as an answer. He drew his chair back and went to sit down but at that very moment the large sweaty man from three tables down was returning from his lengthy stay in the men's room and grazed the table with a massive thigh, jarring the glasses and sloshing a fair amount of bisque onto his date's lap. She stared at the mess, eyes widening, and then up at him. He opened his mouth and prepared to lose the argument.

"It wasn't _me_."

Her gaze was cold, appraising. He squirmed, feeling as if hot creamed soup had just spilled on his lap instead.

"It _wasn't_."

"I don't care if it was you or the man with telekinesis sitting all the way across the room. This dress was new a month ago."

"Well if it was new a month ago technically it's no longer new, so it shouldn't be…" His babbling trailed off, her gaze frying the rest of his sentence. If one could physically glare daggers, she would have chucked scimitars directly into his chest. He tried again.

"Look, why didn't you have your napkin in your lap? It's proper manners to–"

"Take me home." She said quietly. That was it. Quiet. Insistent. The date was over.

He clumsily offered to help her clean up, vouching for the dry-cleaning service the Penguin employed downstairs, but she would not be turned. Miserably, he signaled for the check, which she insisted going Dutch on. He fished out crumpled bills from his suit pockets, she pulled crisp twenties from her clutch purse.

He calculated the bill, never trusting anyone's math but his own, and finding it correct he looked up to comment but found only a chair and a twisted linen napkin. The lady had evidently fled.

He spent the remainder of the night at the bar.

After a while, the Penguin joined him.

He stirred his scotch and soda aimlessly with a swizzle stick, breath reeking of alcohol and bar peanuts. The Penguin ordered Dom Pérignon and hopped into the stool next to his. Neither of them spoke while waiting on the drinks.

"Oswald, what's wrong with me?" The Riddler finally said, slurring slightly. The Penguin sighed and straightened his monocle.

"Is that a real question?"

"Why can't I form intrapersonal relationships with women?"

"Don't you think if I knew that, I wouldn't be talking to you? I'd be on the Riviera, a blonde on each arm, entertaining the elite with my latest sexual escapades."

"You have a considerable amount of personal wealth, I really don't see how you can complain about not regaling the tanned and dumb about the last unfortunate soul to touch your body."

"At least you've never had to pay for sex."

"At least you've never had to beg for it."

Glum silence descended.

"When you've done something stupid, _really_ stupid, what's the best way to make it up?"

"Well, seeing as you were foolish enough to _argue_ with her instead of just admitting your error–"

"It wasn't _me,_ it was the fat man in the aisle!"

"–Your error being that you allowed anything to come in contact with her thrifty haute couture, what I recommend is a spectacular apology, something ridiculously out of proportion with the situation. Flowers are nice. Chocolate, acceptable."

Edward Nygma tapped the counter with two fingers. "I've been an ass, haven't I?"

"Who isn't, around the fairer sex?"

* * *

In the DivisiComp building Karen was returning from lunch with Carol and Ellen from accounting when she ran into the back of a lanky delivery man. He had a large, irregularly shaped package on his hand truck and he was looking around for something, cap tilted over his face. They both jumped after colliding, the man stammering an apology. Carol smiled reassuringly and asked him what he was looking for.

"Do you know where Karen Helms's desk is?"

Karen felt herself go cold. "I'm Karen Helms. It's this way."

They threaded their way through the cubicle labyrinth, collecting gawkers like a snowball rolling downhill. Finally they stopped at her desk, where Karen was forced to sign for the obscenely large package. Her cheeks were now a flaming scarlet, she wanted to excuse herself to the bathroom and cry, but the crowd was so thick around her desk she couldn't budge an inch.

"What's in it?" Ellen cried excitedly. _Traitor_, Karen thought. Numbly she grasped the edge of the wrapping and pulled. The brown paper tore with a satisfying sound, and she took courage. Someone handed her scissors and she carefully cut the thick strings securing the wrapping. The paper fell stiffly away, revealing heart-shaped wreath of mums and asters.

Through her nearly fatal embarrassment, Karen wondered how her admirer knew her favourite flowers. Then she saw the vivid green card with a thick, stylized question mark on it. Mortified, she tried desperately to snatch it off but Carol's fingers were faster and she plucked it from the cast-off skin of the package.

"Oh my _gawd_." She crowed, and Karen died a little inside. Everyone crowded around to examine the card.

"A question mark?"

"Oohh, d' you think it's the _Riddler_?"

"Who else would it be, Killer Croc?"

"What's it say?"

"Nothing, just the question mark."

"Ooooh, Karen, what did you _do_?"

The focus shifted to her and she felt intensely uncomfortable.

"We, um, went out last night."

Screams and squeals of mock-terror and jealousy filled the air.

"How was it?"

"Not great." She admitted. This inspired guffaws and catcalls. She saw Diane seething in the corner and stood up a little straighter. "In fact, he was not a gentleman. I'm assuming this is his form of apology."

Meri squealed. "Will you tell him you accept?"

She looked around at the eager faces.

"Maybe." She answered loftily. Giggles and cheers sounded off around her, the noise was almost deafening. She basked in the warmth of this strange praise for a moment before something tugged insistently at her elbow. She turned to find the delivery man staring at his shuffling feet.

"Yes?"

"Ma'am, could you show me out? Some lady punched in the code to let me in and I don't–"

"Oh, of course!" She turned back. " Carol, watch my desk for a minute, will you? I'll be right back, I swear."

As they wound their way to the elevators, the din died down until it was unearthly quiet. They stepped into the elevator and she pushed the lobby button. It was silent in the elevator until she spoke.

"Ma'am?"

"Would you prefer I called you lady?"

"Miss would have done just fine."

He tilted his cap up, revealing straggly bits of red hair and a high, intelligent forehead. She glanced at his reflection in the elevator doors and smiled a little.

"Okay. I'll admit the flowers are a step in the right direction."

"Good, because they cost an arm and a leg."

Since she was in a good mood, she found his tactlessness endearing instead of infuriating.

"Look, I…I know I don't deserve another chance after how I behaved–"

"Oh, stop groveling." She found herself grinning. "I overreacted. I think the fact that we're still talking is proof that we still have a chance."

A smile slowly turned up the corners of his mouth. "So…can I pick you up tonight?"

"No. I'm busy."

He swallowed. "Of course. How presumptuous."

She softened a little. "Maybe Tuesday."

He perked up a little. "Say around six?"

"Sure." She sighed. "Let's go somewhere small this time. Less…"

"Uptight?"

"Conspicuous."

"Okay then." He relaxed a little. "Let's try this again."

She smiled at his reflection until it returned hers.

* * *

_Author's Note: this may be the last chapter for a while, I'm getting busy with holiday preparations and enjoying my new status as a beta, thanks to all one of you who plucked up the courage. Fujiko Kuwabara's fic "Warriors and Thieves" is great and has been beta'd by yours truly. Click on over there if you feel like more romance, and I know you do, baby._


	4. Chapter 4

Few people knew of this, but Edward Nygma was not a very good runner. He was fast, but running is more than speed. He constantly tripped over things, ropes, nickels, his own feet, air, you name it.

Sadly, he was the same driving.

"_Oh!_ Oh god, _sorry_!" he yelled out the window of his stolen delivery van to the seventeenth person he'd accidentally rear-ended. It wasn't entirely his fault, though, as he'd never before had to drive something with such a crappy turning radius.

Reaching his destination, he hastily and poorly parallel-parked. Running up the steps he tripped and scraped his nose, swearing, he got back up and rang all the bells at once with the hand not occupied by his bleeding face. He was rewarded when one of the apartment dwellers buzzed him in, and he burst into a refreshingly cool and dark stairwell.

There were very few villains he felt comfortable asking for help, and even less that he more or less got along with. But with a few other villains, he made up the "smart set" of the rogues gallery. Not that they'd ever call themselves that, but he knew he could count on at least some kind of answer from them.

Huffing, he mounted the steps for the fourth floor. Damnit, why didn't they just use abandoned warehouses, like everyone else? He came to the very last door and paused a minute to compose himself, smoothing out a cowlick that immediately sprang back into shape. He broke out a Kleenex and swabbed his face; luckily his nose had stopped bleeding in the meantime.

He knocked. No answer. He knocked the aria from _Carmen_.

"_That isn't the knock anymore_," came the muffled reply from within.

"I thought secret knocks were for clubhouses and freemasons," was his practiced reply. The door cracked open about an inch and a hazel eye glared balefully out.

"Not my idea," Jonathan Crane admitted, "I suppose you want _in_ then?"

"Unless you feel comfortable discussing business in the hall," Nygma fired back, smiling warmly. The door shut, fumbling and cursing resonating from behind it. It swung open again, displaying the lanky frame of Professor Jonathan Crane, dressed in baggy pants and a tattered gray shirt.

"Thank god, for a minute there I thought I was actually going to have to go to the Penguin for help again."

Crane gazed at him apathetically. "How lucky for you that we're here.

Uncomfortable seconds ticked by. Crane stared at Nygma, blinking little.

"So…" Nygma ventured, "can I come in?"

Crane heaved a weighty sigh. "I suppose."

The living room looked as if a bomb had gone off. Typical. The only clear space in the piles of newspaper and clothing was a small circle in the exact middle, where a chess board had been set up. Seated at one end was the Mad Hatter, with his ever-present cup of tea. Crane settled himself at the opposite end.

"Make yourself comfortable."

"You've got to be kidding," Nygma gaped at the chaos.

"Well, make yourself heard at any rate," the Hatter began, "feel free to make yourself known, make yourself scarce, and make yourself tea!" he giggled shrilly.

"Hello, Jervis," Nygma said politely, gingerly setting down on the edge of what might have been a couch.

"Nygma, when I invited you in, it was not to socialize with you, or bandy about pleasantries," Crane said, resuming his end of the game.

"Look, I know you're…busy, but I have something I need help with."

"Oh Edward," the Hatter sighed sadly, "the bodies _again?_"

"You promised us you'd stop running here when your crappy schemes went south, damnit; we're _not_ a cleaning service!" Crane flicked a bishop with two fingers and put a knight in its place.

"_It's not that!_ I have a date."

He was the subject of an intense double stare for a moment.

"Well, bully for you," Crane said.

"I mean that. A real one. With a woman no less."

"Really? You? A woman?" the Hatter said with infuriating astonishment.

"It's not _that_ hard to get a date, all right?" Nygma snapped.

"No, it just that I had you pegged as–"

"NO! Nonononono **no**, I'm not." Nygma stumbled backwards, hands furiously waving the negative.

"Really?" Crane peered at him, "that's odd because I remember you telling us–"

"**That**," Nygma replied vehemently, "was just…it's college, okay? It's the time for– look I don't even know why I'm arguing this with you. I need some help."

"Well, I don't have much chloroform but you can–"

"_No!_" Nygma ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Will you let me finish a sentence? I'm about to go on a date, a real date for the first time in five years, and I have nothing to wear!"

"Aww." The Hatter rested his chin in his hand, looking like a small child being read to. "What about your lovely suit you wore for the Schlesinger job? The green one?"

"The one with all the sequins? _Ugh._" Nygma suppressed a full body heave. "I don't even know what I was thinking, that thing would kill a peacock. Why would you…" he trailed off, looking at the Hatter's daily wardrobe he sensed he was treading on thin ice.

Crane had not once taken his eyes from Nygma.

"You want clothes? And you come to _us_?" he said with a hint of pity in his voice.

"Well, I," Nygma's shoulders hunched slightly. "I don't really _know_ anyone else I can talk to. Who else could I ask? The Ventriloquist? Killer Croc?"

"What about Cluemaster?"

"Piss on him."

"Nice mouth," Crane said, turning back to his game.

"Look, I just–" Nygma sat down and put his head in his hand. "I have an _actual_ human who will _actually_ go out with me and might _actually_ let me dip the quill pen! I'm not asking for a miracle. I'm just asking for what very little you can spare."

"Oh." Crane shrugged. "Well, the man this apartment belonged to had some nice things; he might be your size."

"_Might be_?"

"Well, we didn't get a very good look at him before we– but are you sure about the date tonight?"

"I'm incredibly positive."

"Because we can always–"

"_College,_" Nygma said firmly, "now show me to the bedroom."

"Gladly!" the Hatter shouted, jumping up and nearly upending the table.

In the end there wasn't much left from the erstwhile guest of the Scarecrow and Hatter, but there was a rugby shirt that didn't clash too horribly with his hair, and a pair of slacks that hadn't been destroyed when they "acquired" the apartment. With an annoyingly cheerful grin and a wave, Edward Nygma was on his way. His two companions regarded each other thoughtfully in the ensuing silence.

"Jonathan, we just gave aid to a man without asking anything in return."

"Well, I broke the catalytic converter on the Riddle mobile, and I'm waiting for him to find out. Perhaps we've just averted a future storm, hmm?"

The Hatter gazed at the door. "Where do you think he'll go?"

"The usual place."

"Want to–"

"–give him a little visit?" Crane smirked. "My dear Jervis, sometimes you're just perverse enough for my tastes."

The Hatter laughed and snatched his jacket from the table.

* * *

_Author's note: I am dreadfully sorry for the wait, but it's hard to put these things into words. I went through two other versions of this scene before this one, and I'm still not sure I'm happy with it. I'm sure there's a lot of fun to be had with a Riddler/Cluemaster duel, but sadly I've yet to read any comics with the Cluemaster actually in it.(not a huge comic reader, sorry) yes, the Hatter and Scarecrow will be making one last appearance, I like them too much not to have them._


	5. Chapter 5

Karen was having a hard time. Not because she was going through any strenuous preparation, oh no, but she had never been on a date with someone quite like this. She was far too used to expending tremendous effort for dates, dumbing conversation down and using _way_ too much makeup in the off chance that the jerk would get to know her a little before trying to excavate her tonsils.

Now her date was still a jerk, but aware of it, and even a little apologetic. Plus, he happened to be an evil genius. It threw her off; her and her pathetic track record, what could she expect from a guy like the Riddler? He probably wasn't going to shovel steak in his mouth and then make her go dutch on the bill, nor was he going to leave his hand lying casually on the chair she was going to sit down on in order to cop a cheap feel(probably).

So why was she so nervous? She'd been given carte blanche to act like a human being instead of a CPR dummy, so why did she keep flipping through her wardrobe and coming back to the ill-fated blue dress? She was an adult, dammit, not some scared little high school cheerleader!

Yet still she ran her fingers over her filmy green cocktail dress, the one that dipped very low in places, the one she wore when she knew it would only be one date…

She shook herself. _Get it together, Karen_. She had to snap out of it. Coffee.

While she scrambled over the pile of rejects on her floor, someone knocked on her front door. Odd. No one really knew she was home, and her neighbors in 2b wouldn't be back from the movies yet…

She sighed. "What, Edward?"

"_Can I come in? I've been waiting out in the hall deciding whether I want to knock or not. I'm incredibly nervous and in about ten minutes I'm afraid I'll start acting like a jackass again._"

You had to hand it to him, he was honest.

"Yeah, come in. Just don't– wait," she called, hurriedly cramming some of the clutter behind her couch.

"_Don't wait? What?_"

"No, I–_come in!_"

The door cracked open and Edward Nygma peeked anxiously from behind it.

"Are you sure? It sounded like a struggle in here."

"No I'm– I'm fine. Come in, I was just about to make coffee," she said, sweeping straggles of hair from her sweaty forehead. He stepped in like a deer about to bolt, and Karen realized what was different about him, something she had suspected from his tone.

"Your _clothes_," she gasped, in a less dignified manner than she preferred. The casual shirt and khakis fit him oddly, hanging off him like worn paper bags, and looked like they had been inhabiting his floor until he put them on.

"Yes, um, I– yes." Edward looked around like a condemned man in his cell, unconsciously gripping his left elbow. He was so _ungainly_ without his suit and cane. It looked as if he was balancing even when he stood still, arms out to brace him for the inevitable fall. Karen invited him to sit and he nearly fell on her, missing the couch by a foot. Even when he sat it was awkward, he simply stared at his hands as he tapped his thumbs together.

"I'll…I'll make coffee." She hurried out of the room.

While her store-brand French roast trickled thinly into the coffeepot, Karen leaned on the counter and chewed her lip.

It hadn't occurred to her that Edward Nygma might be a little… _lost_ without his clothing. The man was a super villain, for god's sake! You had to dress for impact, your enemies expected more than a wifebeater and flip-flops if you were demanding a couple million in ransom.

When the spotlight was on, you had to look and act the part. But when it was off, you could turn it all off, go and do what you wanted to do, couldn't you? Eddie just didn't wear "normal" clothes because he probably never…

Oh, god.

"I'm sorry, Edward," she whispered to herself.

He looked up as she came back in, bearing two mismatched, steaming mugs. Karen took the one with a scratched realtor logo, Edward got the ancient Star Trek tankard with a chip in the handle. They cradled their ruinously hot coffee, scalding themselves with a couple of sips, saying nothing.

"I don't think I can do this." She bit her lip again. His heart immediately dropped ten stories.

"Why?"

"I–I just _can't_, you know? I made you… look at yourself!" He did. A little wrinkled, maybe spotted here or there, but at least he looked human. He looked back up at her quizzically.

She had set down her cup and paced, still gnawing on her lip.

"I think I look fine."

"Edward, _you don't even look like yourself!_"

"…I thought that was the point."

She shook her head violently. "I've done something horrible to you, I've asked you to do a lot more than you asked of me. For me it's not that big of a deal to go out like this. But for you…"

He looked down at himself, then back to her again. "We _are_ still talking about clothing, aren't we Karen?"

"Yes, and no. I mean, it's complicated." She knotted her hands into fists and turned away from him. He sat silent for a moment, brow knitted.

"You are aware that I'm a _man_, Karen? That clothing, in general, is not a life-or-death decision for me?"

She didn't move.

"Who exactly are you expecting to date? Me or the suit?"

Her voice came soft and sad: "you wouldn't understand."

He sighed. "Oh, I think I do. More than you know." Now she looked at him. "Do you think this is the first 'normal' date I've ever had? That you're the first woman to get, _ahem_, stage fright? Trust me, you're not alone."

She looked at him, an eyebrow cocked.

"Really, you're not. Women, much like your coworkers, expect **The Riddler!** Or **The Question!** They want an idea, not a human being." A small smile quirked his lips as he recalled their discussion from the previous evening. "I'm sorry, but you're only getting poor, awkward Edward Nygma on this date."

The corners of her mouth turned up a little, too. "Well, then, Mr. Nygma, what do you suggest I wear?"

He thought for a moment. "What do you wear when you runs errands?"

"What? …this, I guess." She wore a blue cotton t-shirt indicating her love for the triple bacon subs at Sam's Bar&Grill down on 30th street, and plaid pants. He held his thumb up.

"Beautiful!"

"But I'm not wearing any makeup!"

"Well, I'm not wearing any deodorant."

"This shirt is three sizes too big!"

"I'm fairly sure _my_ shirt came from a dead man."

She stared at him. "You're not joking, are you?"

He smiled a little sadly and shook his head. She sighed.

"I'll get my purse."

* * *

_Author's note: I finished this weeks ago, but thanks to a series of wacky mishaps and the H1N1virus, it's just now being posted. I'm sorry to bring **two** pieces of bad news at the same time, but the next chapter is also the last. You can throw the rotten fruit now. Please, no melons._


	6. Chapter 6

_Minor language and suggestiveness. You've been forewarned._

* * *

The little eatery down on Martin Street was quite possibly the filthiest joint Karen had ever seen in her life. She looked around in dismay at the grungy tablecloths, the walls spattered with orange grease, the floor–

"Oh, _yuck_," she breathed, toeing an amorphous lump with her shoe.

Edward was giving the place an abbreviated version of her inspection, taking in the various health code violations and following one interesting trail of sludge up the wall until it terminated on the oddly spotted ceiling. He did a quick double take.

_The hell–_ He blinked. _How'd they get a __**footprint**__ up there?_

"Why are we here again?" Karen whispered. It seemed appropriate; a well-aimed shout might dislodge a grease avalanche. There was a shriek of a swinging door.

"Tell you later." Nygma pecked her on the cheek. "Mario!"

"Eda-ward, my _boy_!"

Karen's jaw dropped.

A man who seemed to be an amalgamation of every Italian cook stereotype stood before her in an apron(grease-stained), plaid pants and chef's hat(also grease-stained) with his hairy hands held palm up. She stared at them in fascinated horror for a beat before realizing he wanted her to put her hands in them. Repressing a small shudder, she did, and he kissed them with bristly lips.

Edward smiled patiently throughout the whole my-favorite-customer spiel, gently squeezing Karen's reclaimed hand.

"Here-a you are. I make-a you a fine risotto, you and your honey babe." The round, genial, greasy fellow bustled off, leaving Karen sitting unusually straight-backed at the table. Edward kept an eye on their retreating host until he disappeared once more. He nodded to his date.

"He's gone."

Karen burst into fits of helpless laughter, doubling up at the table with tears leaking from her eyes.

"Is he– is he for real?" she managed to choke out.

"Yes, unfortunately. He thinks we enjoy his fine taste in scenery, so he plays it broadly for us. Truth be told I don't think he's even Italian. His real name's Mort."

"Then, then why here?" Karen tried to stave off hysteria by gulping water from a smudged glass. "And who's 'we'?"

"I thought we should have some seclusion, after last time." Edward smiled, tight-lipped. "'We' would be the rogue's gallery. This happens to be the most frequented spot after the iceberg lounge, but it's nothing official. We mostly meet in plainclothes to avoid attention, but the occasional scuffle does break out…I see he's at least repaired the emergency exit since the last time."

"Wait…you're telling me some of Batman's worst meet here regularly?" she glanced around the filthy but mostly intact eatery. "How is this place not a smoking crater by now?"

"Actually, it's fairly simple; have you ever seen the Three Stooges try to go through a door all at once?"

But he never found out if Karen had ever seen that particular mishap, as their distinctly non-PC waitperson returned with their risotto and breadsticks "on the house-a". Edward saw Karen hurriedly jam a breadstick in her mouth, and even he had to take a sip of stale water to keep from losing control. But once the resident ham had left, the air turned somber and quiet. A nice meal was shared between them (the man wasn't clean but he could cook) and nothing else. Finally Edward sat back and sighed.

"Well, that was nice for a farewell dinner." He picked at a bland roll on his plate. "I'm sorry we wasted our time trying to impress each other, Karen. Maybe if we'd come here first…maybe the awkwardness of our milieu would've been canceled out by the greasy horror that is our host."

Karen cracked a small smile, though she didn't feel particularly funny. She sighed and wiped her hands on the thigh of her plaid pants.

"Edward," she paused and licked her lips, "I don't…I don't _want_ it to be like this. Despite all we've been through, I _like_ you, I really do."

Her dinner companion heaved a sigh.

"I'm not joking!"

"I know," Nygma said morosely, chin propped up on a fist, "you're not lying, you're not trying to spare my feelings, and you're not distracting me so that when the check arrives you'll pretend to use the restroom and escape out the window."

"Right," she agreed, "not even that last one."

"But the plain truth is that we're not…" he searched for a word he hated less than the one that popped into his head. He failed. "…_**compatible**_."

Karen nodded listlessly. By her elbow a friendly roach scavenged for bread crumbs.

"I mean, besides the obvious I'm-a-supervillain-you're-a-woman side of it, we're just so _different_ from each other."

"Right, you're more intellectual–"

"–and you're, well, um, _not_ intellectual…not in the sense that–"

"Eddie." She laughed and waved it away. He gave her a nervous grin.

"I'm more into quiet, cerebral pursuits, you probably like the movies–"

"Sadly yes."

"–I'm a morning person, you probably prefer evenings–"

"I like the nightlife."

"–I'm stuffy and boring, you're impetuous and lowbrow–"

"Yep."

"–I'm high-maintenance and obsessive-compulsive, you're lazy and emotionally insensitive–"

"I guess."

"–I'm hyper and completely blind to social mores, you're pushy and opinionated and have no–"

"–look, let's not celebrate it, okay?"

"Fine." Edward stopped up short. He searched for his next words with the care of a master chess player.

"We just don't _work_, not on the level other couples do. What could we talk about really? What could we do together that wouldn't end in bitter argument?"

"Yeah, when you come home after a hard day of getting beaten up by Batman, I'll have spent my entire day dealing with emotionally unstable coworkers and we'll never be in the mood to do anything!"

Nygma blinked. "Um, yes. Right. My point is, though, what do we really have in common, besides being lonely?"

"Not much," she sighed.

"I mean if our public lives are any indication, we would have absolutely no time and no energy for anything but the occasional one-sided conversation and maybe a quick bout of desperate lovemaking. I mean, at this point all we can hope for is a secret relationship, completely apart from our everyday lives, comprised of nothing but stolen kisses and hot, clandestine sex…" Edward trailed off, suddenly very warm. He stared very intently at the blank walls and gave a long, laborious swallow.

"So…that, uh…that sound…_good_ to you?" he managed.

Karen sat bolt upright and very still in her chair, seemingly fascinated with the fizzling neon sign in the window.

"Oh," she said in a high, breathy voice, "that sounds just dandy to me."

There was a minor delay as he caught his wristwatch on the tablecloth, but he wrenched it free with a cry of victory as she bounded over his upturned chair and latched onto him. Their first kiss was probably awkward, but it was also livid and hot and so intense they didn't even notice. He hoisted her body until they were half-standing, half-leaning against the table; she groaned and lightly bit his jaw. They managed to decouple for a minute to hammer out plans.

"Bill?"

"I have a 50."

"Our meal was $15.78."

"It's a big tip."

"My place?"

"Good."

"Taxi?"

"Great."

They chased each other outside.

The restaurant they left was still for a moment, only the silent trickle of warm grease flowing like snowmelt. Then the wall burst in.

A Ford Taurus, tricked out with spikes and various deadly implements, heaved forward and belched crimson smoke. The passenger door flung open, disgorging a nightmare figure who flung his hands to the sky.

"_**Behold, the harbinger of all**_–…crap!" Jonathan Crane slid the burlap mask up from his face. "_They aren't here!_"

"_Maybe they lied to us_," came his companion's muffled reply. Jervis Tetch ascended from their frightmobile's belly through the sunroof, cup of tea held nonchalantly in one hand, looking not particularly concerned at the escape of their quarry.

Jonathan hefted his straw hat and scratched his head. "Maybe they got stuck in traffic?"

"They've probably already left. I told you it takes too long to find parking around here! We should've gone with the valet."

"Jervis," Crane explained with the patience of a mother, "I told you, that isn't a proper valet. It's Killer Croc in a vest."

The bustling chef chose this moment to enter the dining room. He dropped the greasy torte he'd been carrying and ripped off his chef hat.

"What the hell-a?! My two best-a customers leave without goodbye-a, and you two goons-a break-a my wall _again-a_."

"Oh shut _up_ Mort." The Scarecrow spat, sliding back into the passenger seat.

* * *

The taxi hissed to a stop in front of Karen's apartment building; the happy couple disentangled long enough to throw a wad of money at the driver and exit the vehicle. They joined again once safely on the front step, one furious knot of limbs, tongues, and cotton-poly blend clothing.

"Could you carry me to the door or something?" she murmured around his bottom lip.

"What?"

"Something romantic?"

"I don't think I could even take two steps with you. Maybe I could rip something?"

"Like what?" she peppered his collarbone with kisses.

There was a loud tearing sound as the seat of her pants split neatly down the middle. Karen drew away and stared Edward full in the face.

"I slept in those," she murmured tonelessly.

"I'll give you something of mine sleep in from now on."

She paused, considering.

"Good save," she said finally.

* * *

And now let us leave the happy and unique couple to their nightly activities, for even the oddest of couples deserves their privacy. In lieu of an epilogue, have a punchline:

Way across town, another couple was halted in the process of ugly-bumping by an unfortunate development, or rather lack thereof.

Harley sighed and shook her head, dropping the royal purple sheet. "It's no good, puddin'. I can't get Pagliacci to do a standing ovation. I told ya, you should've seen that doctor!"

The Joker, swathed in a silk robe, gravely took Harley's small hands in his. "I told you, pooh, that wasn't a real doctor, it was Killer Croc in a vest."

* * *

_Author's note: yes, I'm actually ending it there. Leave 'em laughing, or at least leave while they're distracted by the awful punchline. My thanks to all those who loved it and reviewed, and those who loved it and didn't review, and those who just read the stupid thing. I hate writing typical romance, so this is what comes out when I attempt it. There may be a sequel in the works, or I might just make passing mention of their relationship in another story. Who can say what the future holds? Salute._


End file.
